


your kind

by colourinside



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 03:15:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20057116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colourinside/pseuds/colourinside
Summary: Aziraphale is insulted by a homophobic bookseller, but he knows to defend himself.





	your kind

They were walking crowded London streets together in the lazy autumn afternoon sun, which was about to give way to a lazy autumn drizzle, when Aziraphale stopped mid-pace. A disgruntled sound came from behind him and another from beside him when Crowley spotted the bookshop that Aziraphale was now standing in front of, with a steady current of people pushing past them, shuffling and grumbling. Aziraphale’s face brightened and Crowley could no longer be disgruntled. The angel’s smile was contagious.  


Aziraphale let go of Crowley’s hand – gently, like a question, like an apology – and gave him a pleading look.

“You go on ahead, my dear,” said Aziraphale. They had been on their way to have a cosy dinner after a walk in the park and Crowley had been complaining for a while about aching feet and had a general air of peckishness about him. Today, his patience for books would be a thing of Aziraphale’s imagination at best. So, with a peck on the lips, he let him go.

“Get us the best table,” he said. And then he added a promise: “I won’t be long!” That was already half shouted after the demon who had already turned on his heel.

“Wouldn’t count on that,” said Crowley, disappearing.

In Aziraphale’s experience, bookshops always had a warmth to them, a serenity, a calmness. The shelves were usually bursting with epiphany, beckoning, tempting. A bookshop was welcoming and mysterious, a place of sanctuary from the busy and fast-paced world. But this one, somehow, felt very different. A strange, hostile aura engulfed Aziraphale like a heavy, dusty veil, upon entering. This was, he assumed, why no one was in the shop. It was dark, especially now that the clouds had shifted across the sky, and if Aziraphale hadn’t spotted a first-edition copy of a rare bible, he would have left again.

He turned, and like an apparition, the owner of the small shop (or at least the bookseller) was there, staring, throwing him an icy glare. He made Aziraphale jump.

“Good Lord,” said Aziraphale and made to turn, so he could browse the shelves. But he was distracted by the rumbling voice of the man, big as a barrel, with small, protruding eyes.

“I don’t want your kind in my shop,” said the owner and the atmosphere pulled a little tighter around them. Aziraphale turned slowly back over his shoulder, his eyes suddenly icy and sharp.

Crowley was waiting for Aziraphale in one of their favourite dinner places. He didn’t stop smiling, an interested, amused smile, when Aziraphale stomped in, carrying an air of tangible irritation. He was still huffing when he immediately ordered himself a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. And when the food was served, he ate even quicker than usual. He had asked Crowley not to say a word before dessert, so he hadn’t. But when, finally, Aziraphale’s dessert was placed carefully on the table in front of him, he couldn’t keep his curiosity in check for much longer.

“So, angel,” he said, lifting the second dessert spoon that came with Aziraphale’s Mousse au Chocolat as if it was a spear with which he was going to attack it, “what exactly happened at the bookshop?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale grit his teeth, there seemed to be sparks coming from his eyes as he gripped his dessert spoon tighter and took a big mouthful of chocolate mousse. “The bookseller was a vile person. _Vile.”_

Crowley seemed surprised. “Whatever did they do to you?”

Aziraphale took a breath. He swallowed. “Well. I had barely entered his shop when he gave me a very hostile look and said _I don’t want your kind here._ And of course, _of course_, I knew immediately what he was on about, considering that he could see me give you a kiss through his shop window and all. Quite the _scandal_, after all.”

He spat out the word as if it was a cherry pit that wasn’t supposed to be there since those cherries were clearly canned. Aziraphale took another spoonful of chocolate mousse. Crowley listened. Attentively.

“Anyway... I turned around and I said to him,” Aziraphale spoke firmly now, “I said, _Well and I’m not going to buy books from your kind._ And I turned on the spot to _leave.”_ Aziraphale realised that he had been speaking with his mouth full. He swallowed and reached for his napkin to clean his lips. Crowley took the opportunity and reached forward to steal a big spoonful of chocolate mousse. Aziraphale was still eating rather furiously fast.

“But then,” he continued, “I turned around again because I simply couldn’t leave it at that, I just couldn’t, and I said _And one more thing, let me say with pleasure that I am certainly never going to get the idea to set foot in your shop ever again and I will make sure that everyone I know knows what a _vile_ person you are.”_

Aziraphale’s cheeks were positively glowing with anger now and his fingers were shaking. Crowley gave a chuckle. But his shoulders had visibly tensed, and he had stopped stealing from Aziraphale’s plate, encouraging him with a wave of his spoon to continue.

“And?”

“And,” said Aziraphale, “I then turned around one more time and I said, on his doorstep, I said _Oh and fuck you too, Sir. Good day._ And then I walked off.”

Aziraphale huffed out another breath, paused, straightened himself. Then, for the first time, he looked up from his dessert at Crowley, who had a soft smile on his lips but was also shaking his head.

“He _really_ shouldn’t have talked to you like this. What an arsehole.”

“Yes, rather,” Aziraphale agreed with a nod.

“But,” said Crowley, “wasn’t this satisfying, angel? Telling off this wanker knowing full well that he deserved to hear all those things?”

And there it was again. The tentative smile on Aziraphale’s lips, softly curling the corners of his mouth upwards. He once more looked at his dessert.

“Yes,” he said, “I suppose it was.”

“Ha,” said Crowley, “that’s right. Can’t have that homophobic twat think he’s right about saying these things. Can’t have them think you’re scared or something. Serves them right to be told off.”

“Oh yes, it really does.”

Aziraphale looked up again and met Crowley’s smile, returned it.

“I’m proud of you, angel,” said Crowley in jest, chuckling.

They finished their dessert.

“Can I bring you anything else,” asked the waitress, clasping a menu that another guest had just handed her, “an espresso perhaps?”

“An espresso would be nice, dear, thank you,” said Aziraphale.


End file.
